<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Moon Sugar by spaceOdementia</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308963">Moon Sugar</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceOdementia/pseuds/spaceOdementia'>spaceOdementia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Bakery, And coffee, Christmas fic, Cloud is a scrooge, Cloud melts his frozen black heart with help from Tifa, Desserts, Disgustingly sweet, F/M, Finding Joy, Fluff, Fluff everywhere, I ain't lyin, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Love, Magic, Pastries, Romance, Romance and Fluff, SO MUCH HAPPINESS, Sugar, Tifa and her mom run a bakery together, Tifa is basically the angel of winter, alternative universe, and sweets, happiness, inspired by christmas, joy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:22:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308963</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceOdementia/pseuds/spaceOdementia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Cloud is a scrooge. Tifa is everything but. </p>
<p>What happens when they collide?</p>
<p>Why, magic, of course.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cloud Strife/Tifa Lockhart, Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Moon Sugar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE! &lt;3</p>
<p>I couldn't help myself. I really wanted to write a Christmas one-shot this year, and I actually met my goal! I meant to do the gift exchange for Secret Santa over on the Final Heaven discord but I definitely forgot to sign up on time (as I do constantly, all the time). I wanted this to be my feeble offering as a general gift to you guys. Thanks for reading my stuff. I can't get over the love.</p>
<p>Heads up -- this is disgustingly sweet. It was almost even too much for me! LOL. Don't say I didn't warn you. </p>
<p>THANK YOU TO Somebodys_Nightmare for reading over this for me and validating that even though it's stupidly sweet, it's still palatable. I LOVE YOU FOREVER. &lt;3</p>
<p>Happy reading and happy holidays! Love one another, stay safe, and eat lots of sweets.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tifa has always loved winter. The first snowfall usually occurred at the beginning of December in her mountainous hometown. It was always preceded by a frost, the yellowing grasses dusted in crystalized dew, the tips whitened and glimmering against the morning sunlight. Tifa always knew when true winter was upon them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s her favorite time of year. She can stand out on her back porch with her hot coffee, dressed and bundled up for work and watching the sunlight scatter across the morning frost. It is a little different, now, not living around grassy fields and expansive mountains. She lives against a lot of metal and buildings and dirt, with patches of grass few and far between in the city of Edge. The buildings glint and reflect the fluffy, gray clouds, and the windows of the buildings frost over instead. The ground is rock solid from the deep and constant freeze of the nights. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is something fabulously romantic about the time of year, too. The shining lights curled around trees and the borders of the buildings, the fat flakes of snow that fall each week, and the vibrance and shine of the holidays fill her with a simple, easy kind of joy. Beauty splashes against the season, and the warmth of coffee and hot chocolate are staples for every day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cold is also an excuse to layer, throw on a beanie, thermal tights, winter coats—the works. Tifa doesn’t mind the wind cutting into her cheeks or the watery eyes or the occasional sniffle. In fact, it makes her feel alive in a way that is different than summer and spring. Her blood zings with merriment, and her lungs expand with the chilly touch of the atmosphere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She makes her way down the sidewalk of downtown Edge, entering through the back door of the shop. She unravels herself from her scarf and slips her winter coat on the rack standing just inside the entrance. She grabs one of the aprons and settles into her morning business. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is another reason she loves winter. She gets to help her mother with her special, holiday treats, baking and kneading and mixing and folding, putting their creations on display in the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is truly nothing better than this. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Cloud hates winter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hates the cold. He hates the holidays. He hates the fanfare and the music and the cheer. Especially the cheer. And the snow. And the wind that cuts like knives straight through his clothes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has to bring out his extra layers of clothing and slips his arm through sweaters and coats until he’s a stuffed balloon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The snow might be the worst. It seems into his clothes like a disease. It melts into his hair, and the flakes always find the one spot of his body he didn’t cover up—his neck, his chin, even his eyeballs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His nose gets runnier with each passing day. His eyes blur from the frosty chill. His lungs feel like they’re punctured with icicles during every inhalation. He’d rather stay home the whole season in the comforting warmth of his apartment, sitting by his fireplace, away from people and blessedly alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That is but a dream. His job entails delivering the gifts he could care less about, bringing them from one friend or family member to another, driving on black ice and being whipped to the bone from the freeze. It’s the worst season for this kind of occupation, and Cloud much prefers the colors and atmosphere of autumn—not too cold, not too hot, and rich in delightful rainbows of red, brown, yellow, and gold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud trudges down the sidewalk to his work headquarters in Edge, his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched to his ears. Once he makes his way to his floor and receives his assignment, he files out, loading his cargo, equipping his broadsword, and hopping onto his designated vehicle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He putters the engine to life and peels out of the motorbike garage, heading out onto the highways from Edge to Kalm, Junon, and the other big cities he has to hit before the end of the day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wind slices into him almost immediately, and Cloud grumbles all the way during his drive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There is nothing worse than this. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>During the month of December, Tifa’s mother changes her bakery menu. Holiday spices take over the tarts, pastries, cookies, and cakes. Cookies take the shape of snowmen, candy canes, Christmas trees, and ornaments. Petit fours and cake pops are favorite little treats that are bought with a morning coffee. Companies throughout Edge order in bulk, requiring goodies and sweets for parties and lunches. Someone is always in the back kitchen, creating dough or batter, something always baking in the oven and the smells permeating the shop all throughout the day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The shop becomes three times busier than it is most of the year, and Tifa makes herself available to help out more throughout the weeks. During the rest of the year, Tifa lends a hand during the weekends when she can. Owning a few bars is busy enough, but any time she can spare, she is in her mother’s shop, nose and apron dusted with flour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her mother tells her there is no need to continue helping her. She’ll hire part-time employees to cover the increased capacity. It isn’t a big deal, and she can take care of her shop on her own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Tifa loves helping. Her mother has passed on her love of baking and cooking to Tifa, and it never feels like a chore. It’s a comfort. Working side by side with her mother is always a pleasure Tifa relishes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On one of these mornings, walking down the sidewalk with her thermos filled with coffee, bundled up with her scarf and gloves, Tifa is humming a Christmas tune. Snow flurries are gently falling from the sky, and the neighborhoods are brightened from the hidden morning sun reflecting through the clouds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she turns the corner, her shoulder rams into someone. The force is so abrupt and unexpected, Tifa’s grip on her thermos is loosened. It tips forward, and coffee flies out of the mouthpiece, splattering on the person in front of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa gasps. “Oh! I’m so sorry! So sorry!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man’s coat is navy, and Tifa watches as the coffee stains the threads. The man grunts, his mouth curled in a grimace. He stares down at the stain before his eyes narrow, his glare coming up and encompassing her. They are a scary blue, icy and cool. In the moment, they remind her of the exact color of December. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d be so pretty, she thinks, had they not been so angry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Watch it,” he snarls, bringing his hand up to flick off the beads of coffee that had not yet been absorbed into his coat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nearly rocks back on her feet from the fury of his words. She blinks, hurriedly pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here, this might help,” she ventures, offering the napkin. The man gives it a brief glance, scoffing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not gonna do anything,” he says, stepping back. “Pay attention next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s mouth drops open a little, and her head swivels to follow him as he continues his purposeful trek down the sidewalk. A heat builds in her chest, filled with shame, shock, and guilt. She takes in a breath, huffing, and shakes her head. She curls her hand around the handkerchief and crumples it. She shoves it back into her pocket and makes her way to the bakery, thinking about the snarl on that stranger’s face the rest of the walk. The winter cheer is suddenly knocked out of her for the rest of the day. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Cloud has, potentially, one friend at work. Potentially, because half the time, Cloud’s annoyed by him. He’ll roll his eyes and be completely irritated by his happy-go-lucky demeanor. Even with cold and cracked lips, Zack will be smiling. His teeth will clatter, but he’ll continue to grin and laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Throughout the rest of the year, it inspires Cloud to see the silver lining throughout the mundane, day by day routine. During winter, however, Cloud could give less than a shit about Zack’s outlook on life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, man. There’s this awesome bakery you need to try. It only opened last year, but they have some killer goods. I bought a few of their pastries this morning,” Zack says, grinning. “You gotta try one!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Zack reaches into his pack, pulling out a thin, white paper bag. “So I got some miniature cookies, a bear claw, a couple of cake pops…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud’s eyebrow twitches. “Did you buy the whole store?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Zack guffaws. “Nearly. That’s how good it is. And I don’t know what they brew in their coffee, but it must be refined mako because it’s like a drug.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They call it caffeine,” Cloud deadpans.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aren’t you a bag of laughs this morning,” Zack says, hitting him on the shoulder. “What, are you still mad about that chick spilling coffee on you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grumbling, Cloud says, “Of course not. That was a week ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen, Cloud, the wind could blow wrong and you’re mad about it for days.” Zack shrugs, pulling out a cookie from the bag and shoving it into Cloud’s face. “Here. Eat it. It’ll make you feel better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud frowns at Zack’s description. He knows he can be surly, and he is not a ball of sunshine on any given day, and sure, he might still occasionally think about that girl’s coffee soaking into his coat or other mild inconveniences, but…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not that bad, is he? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To be fair, it’s always been easier to be angry and annoyed than to force himself to be happy. He doesn’t have the energy to put forth to </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be happy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud attempts to ignore the cookie, but Zack is relentless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon, Cloud. One cookie isn’t going to kill you. Just try it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Zack’s grin is blinding and almost too large for his face. Cloud sighs, snatching the cookie from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud used to have a voracious sweet tooth. Cloud thinks he </span>
  <em>
    <span>“used to”</span>
  </em>
  <span> when in reality, he still has one. It isn’t as if it had miraculously left him, but he always feels guilty eating them, because his mother would make the best desserts. Everything else tasted subpar and lacking, forlornly empty and not worth tainting his mother’s memory with sugared cardboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing could compare, and nothing ever has. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Annoyed enough by Zack calling out his attitude, he takes a quick bite of the cookie, ready to swallow it and the lingering bitterness of his guilt with record speed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud stops mid-chew. He blinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s…good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Really good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It melts in his mouth without needing to move his jaw, and Cloud swallows, the sweetness of the sugar overtaking the melancholy nostalgia for a brief and beautiful moment. It makes a warm trail down his throat to his stomach, and Cloud expels a breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See?” Zack says, continuing to grin. “Isn’t it great?” Before Cloud can respond, he says, “Don’t say no!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud scoffs. “It’s good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only good?” Zack says incredulously, shaking his head at him. “Never mind, I’m not surprised. You would only think it was good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud rolls his eyes, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s just a cookie, Zack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sighing dramatically, Zack merely drops his hands, reaching into the bag for another treat. “Well, you should go on your own and try the coffee, at the very least. It’ll definitely make the courier trips more tolerable.” Zack gives him a pointed look. “Trust me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud shrugs noncommittally. “Maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just a few blocks from your apartment,” Zack says, persevering. “It’s called Moon Sugar Bakery. Which is funny, because that’s slang for cocaine, which is basically what it feels like I’m eating, and it’s accurate because I’m completely addicted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud grunts, but throughout the rest of the day, he is not as cold. The wind is blunted, almost dulled. The snow doesn’t irritate him as terribly as it had the day before. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Could it really be the cookie?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes at himself, Cloud negates his thought. No. It’s Zack’s words getting to him. Placebo. Mind tricks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds out three more days before he finds himself turning down one block earlier during his walk to work. He doesn’t think about it as he passes in front of the small storefront, the sign overhead bolded in black and outlined in white, the name Moon Sugar in simple cursive. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re Open!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sign in the window has a happy snowman drawn on the edge and bordered with vibrantly colored holly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud hesitates for a brief moment before he enters the shop, the bells tinkling above the doorway. He’s immediately assaulted with the smell of baking—the warmth of sugar, the sting of mint, the rich burn of spices and cake, and the fresh brew of coffee. The nostalgia of the smell punches him in the jaw, and Cloud merely stands there, the welcoming heat of the shop curling around him like a hug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A woman is standing behind the counter with her back facing the entrance as she fixes a cup of coffee for one of the customers. A few people are scattered around, sitting in pairs or singles, one of them picking at a cinnamon roll. A mixer sounds from behind the door to what must lead to the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the woman turns to deliver the coffee, she is suddenly familiar. Even with her hair in a bun, without a beanie, scarf, and coat, Cloud remembers her from ten days ago. She had spilled coffee on him, and she fumbled to help with a handkerchief. Her eyes had surprised him the most, but he was too angry at the world and annoyed with the run-in to care about them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a moment, she looks up from handing the customer their coffee. Her head turns and her gaze lands on him. Her easy smile immediately falls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud is struck with the abrupt urge to turn around and leave, but the sugar beckons him. It cements his booted feet to the floor like hardened caramel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman clears her throat. “Um, may I help you?”</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Tifa places a hand on her hip, cocking her head at the man standing in the middle of her shop. He looks exactly the same as he did when she ran into him. It looks like he’s wearing the same coat—it’s a generic navy, fleeced jacket. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and his eyes are as icy blue as they had been when he burned her with his very sudden rage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stalls at her question. He seems like he’s out of place. He doesn’t strike her as a man who comes into bakeries to order coffee or pastries. He seems too severe a man to soften at sweets, but Tifa has learned the depth of power that sugar can have over the last year and a half. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A coffee,” he finally answers. “Regular.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have several different kinds,” she says, gesturing to the menu on the wall. “But I take it you’re a black coffee kind of guy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man blinks, his shoulders rising slightly to his ears. “Uh…yeah. Black is fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” she says. “I have our house roast, which is medium and bold, but I also have a lighter blonde roast, and a dark. Do you have a preference?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man’s lips thin in puzzlement. “…house is fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa can’t help her smile. “House roast, coming right up. Here or to-go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To-go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, she turns and reaches for the fresh batch, grabbing a regular-sized coffee cup. She pours, places the lid on the cup, slips on the sleeve, and plugs it with a stirrer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she turns back to the counter, she sees him eyeing the sweets on display. Her smile widens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We made those just this morning,” she says, moving to stand behind the display case. “These minis are sugar cookies and chocolate chip. Over here, we have some cake balls, cinnamon rolls, streusels, and lemon bars. Would you like to try any?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The poor man seems overwhelmed by the choices. He shifts from one foot to the other, hesitating before he says, “Not today. Just coffee will be fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her lips tug down. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, we’re open from seven to seven all of December and into the New Year.” She hands him the coffee over the counter. “This is on the house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks at her. “No, I can pay for it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa only smiles. “First-time customers get their first order free. And besides,” she says, winking. “I hope this makes up for me dumping coffee on you last week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs at that, shaking his head. “I…you shouldn’t apologize. I was having a bad morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I made it worse,” she answers, pushing the coffee further over the counter for him. “Please. Take it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. He reaches forward, and his bare hand brushes against hers as he takes it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says. It shocks Tifa momentarily, because this man inside of her shop sounds so much different than the one on the sidewalk, under the flurries of December snow. He seems nearly approachable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She grins. “You’re welcome. I hope you come again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes linger on her for a moment, and his blue eyes send a winter chill through her. Tifa is surprised at the sensation, but she hastily wills it away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man tips his head before he turns on his heel and walks out the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Tifa looks down at her arms, she realizes they are lined with goosebumps. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>The man comes again the day after next. He seems a bit less hesitant than the first day, and once Tifa greets him with a smile, he says, “I liked the coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa tilts her head. “Not just because it was free?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A small smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, and Tifa is pleasantly surprised. “No, not just because of that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad to hear it,” she says. “We sell the coffee grounds if you’re interested.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Maybe another time. I’ll keep it the same, today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods, turning to the coffee. “Any sweets this time? I made some gingersnaps this morning, along with some brownies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s quiet for a moment, and she glances over her shoulder to see him gleaning the display. “You made these?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course. My mom and I bake every morning.” She gestures to the back kitchen. “She bakes all day while I man the front.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He seems to hesitate, just as he had the previous day. Amused, Tifa says, “I promise they’re harmless if you don’t eat too many.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at her, raising a brow before he scoffs. “Yeah. My waistline might start to suffer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She grins, placing the lid on the cup before turning back to him. “A little indulgence is always a good thing, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances back at the sweets before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like to sample one of them?” she asks before she rings up the coffee. “No pressure, but I promise they’ll make your day better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The little smirk she receives from the comment fills her with triumph. She smiles at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh...okay. What’s your favorite?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa walks over behind the display, tapping a finger on her lips. “I’m biased. You can’t go wrong with any of them, but I will admit I have a soft spot for the brownies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He contemplates her answer for a moment before he says, “Alright. I’ll take a piece to-go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t want a sample to make sure?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, he glances up at her, and his gaze shocks goosebumps into her skin again. “No. I trust your word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa is mortified when she feels a blush creeping up her neck. “Um, okay, sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She filches a brownie square from the tray, placing it into a pocket of wax paper and setting it into a white paper bag. She puts it on the counter beside his coffee before ringing up his order.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he hands her the gil for the coffee and brownie, Tifa says, “I hope you like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I will,” he answers, tipping his head. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome. Come again,” she smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He simply nods before he turns on his heel and slips through the door. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Cloud doesn’t mean to become a regular to the bakery shop, but he feels its pull on him every morning on his way to work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The coffee is good. Almost too good. It is black and doesn’t have any type of sugar or creamer or flavoring, but it is terribly smooth and divine. Cloud isn’t even a coffee connoisseur, nor is he as addicted to it as Zack claims to be, but it opens his eyes to how shit his normal brew of coffee is at home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That day at work isn’t terrible. He doesn’t careen over patches of ice on the road, the wind doesn’t kill him, and his lips don’t crack or bleed as much as usual. He doesn’t require taking out his chapstick a million times. The sunlight that filters through the clouds give him a welcome relief from the frost of the late morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things don’t seem to irritate him as much as they normally do. Cloud is miffed by the time he arrives back home, and he wonders briefly... just briefly about the bakery. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes and comes back to himself. What is he wondering about? The magic of coffee and sugar that doesn’t exist? Cloud can’t believe what he’s allowing himself to think.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day, he doesn’t go. He hadn’t been planning to go, anyway, but he sleeps late. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> sleeps in late. He usually has a hard time sleeping, and Cloud wakes up in a daze before he glances at the clock and leaps out of bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something weird is going on. And is still going on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he arrives the next morning, he hadn’t realized he was going to make the pit stop until he’s already in the shop. The woman is there, already smiling and catering to customers at 7:30 in the morning. That’s an admirable trait. Cloud can hardly do more than grunt at 7:30 in the morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s well worth it. The coffee fills him up like fuel for the entirety of his assignment. The monsters are easier to kill. He nearly enjoys the drive. He eats the brownie at lunch once he arrives in Junon, and Cloud has to take a seat as he eats it. His knees buckle. His vision doubles. It is so decadent and sinful, Cloud thinks he’s been sent straight to hell after eating it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Throughout the rest of the day, nothing bothers him. Not a thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something is happening, and Cloud’s suspicions are running high. What is in the brownie? In the cookie?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even the coffee?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Zack is right. Maybe it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> refined mako.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud can’t help himself. He arrives the next morning, feeling almost sheepish and embarrassed for going three times in a week. And two days in a row. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cloud thinks. Their coffee is better than his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he enters the shop, there are only two other patrons sitting at the tables. The woman behind the counter is placing fresh pastries into the display from a baking tray, and an older woman is chatting with her. The younger woman is wearing the same bun as she usually does, a few strands of hair loose and framing her face. She wears a dark purple apron that is already holding a few stains. Her lips hold a soft smile as she arranges cookies and rolls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The older woman is smiling before she glances at Cloud. She looks back at Tifa and winks before she makes her way into the back kitchen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she does, the younger woman frowns but looks up and catches his eye. She gives him a large smile, and there’s something about it this morning that makes his knees want to buckle just like when he ate the brownie. He nearly blushes at the attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, hello,” she greets him. “I’m happy to see you again so soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud swallows. His tongue suddenly becomes thick and clumsy. “Uh, thanks. Can’t help myself, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs lightly. “Maybe you’ll become a regular. At least, for the month. We have a lot of specials every week if you’re interested.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Might be hard-pressed,” he mutters, and she laughs again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you like the brownie?” she says, already turning and grabbing a to-go cup. She reaches for the coffee pot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Like</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounds like such a feeble word in regards to how he truly felt. He shrugs. “Yeah. It was good. You were right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this, she grins again. “Wonderful. Would you like to try something else? I don’t have brownies, but I do have iced sugar cookies, almond bars, and pumpkin cinnamon bread.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud nearly begins salivating at the array of choices. The guilt he had felt only a few days prior begins to vanish at the sight of the desserts. Cloud doesn’t trust that either, but the ease of it feels nearly magical. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Besides, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’re just pastries.</span>
  </em>
  <span> They are merely sugar, flour, and butter. Simple, mundane ingredients. Nostalgia be damned. It makes him feel close to his mother, again, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>missed </span>
  </em>
  <span>this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps that’s the most magical thing of all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the woman glances up at him, again, he admires the color of her eyes. They are a deep rouge, twinkling like the red bulbs decorating the outside of his apartment complex.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Our deal today is $6 for a dozen of these sugar cookies,” she says. “Doesn’t mean you have to eat them all at once. Or you could share them with your work and tell them about us.” She smiles, winking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud shifts his weight on his right foot, tilting his head to the side. “You’re good at that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At what?” she asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Selling,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns her head to the side, shaking her head. He spies a smile along the profile of her face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Thank you. I just want everyone to enjoy this place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud’s lips thin, contemplating. “I’ll do the deal. There are a lot of people at work that’ll enjoy the cookies. But I’ll take one of those bars for myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman glows. “How about I throw in the bar for free? As continued incentive to spread the word.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud smirks. “I’ll take that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nodding, she gathers his order together, wrapping it carefully and neatly. She sets his coffee beside the bagged box as she rings up his order. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he hands over the gil, she asks, “So, I realized I haven’t asked you. What’s your name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes the coffee cup, pulling out the plug from the lid. He glances up at her. “Cloud.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her eyes soften at his answer. “Cloud. Nice to meet you. I’m Tifa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Tifa</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It flutters against his brain. It’s a pretty name, and it matches everything about her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes the bag of treats. “Thank you, Tifa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See you soon?” she asks, her gaze passing through him like the winter wind. Cloud gets a chill, but it is not unpleasant.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He answers her with a small smirk. “Yeah. Pretty soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With that, he turns and leaves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the end of the day, even his suspicions begin to leave him.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Cloud comes to the bakery every day for the rest of that week. Tifa learns his schedule quickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He arrives anywhere between 7:15 and 7:30 am. He doesn’t have a favorite sweet. He tries anything, occasionally asking her for her favorite and ordering it immediately thereafter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t smile. He only smirks. His eyes are intense and remind her of a fishing net—she feels caught inside his stare every time he looks at her. She gains goosebumps every visit, no matter how short their interaction. Sometimes, she thinks about his snarl that first day she ran into him, and she realizes that impression was far from what he exhibits every time he enters the bakery. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lines are still severe, but there is a lightness to him. There is </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, and Tifa is elated every time she sees it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next week, he arrives between 7:02 and 7:04 am. He’s earlier than normal, and he brings his own thermos for coffee. He tells her he’ll pay for the large as it holds just as much as the bakery’s large. She waves him off, smiling and telling him it’s only one gil more. He answers by placing two gil in the tip jar. She huffs at him, and his eyes shine with amusement. Goosebumps raise, again. Always goosebumps. Tifa rubs at her arms to try and will them away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That week, he’ll eat his breakfast of champions at a small table by the window. He only lasts about ten minutes before he stands and takes his leave, tipping his head at her in farewell.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On Tuesday, it is December fifteenth. That’s the day Cloud asks her what time she arrives at the bakery. She tells him she gets there at 5:30 am. Once, she had started much later because her mother didn’t need the help. Now, she arrives earlier and earlier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At Cloud’s raised brows, Tifa shakes her head. “I enjoy it. I love baking with her. This place is her dream, and I’m happy to help her make it come true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That morning is slow, and Tifa talks to him from behind the counter with her own cup of coffee. It’s a Christmas Spiced latte, she tells him, which tastes very reminiscent to a gingerbread cookie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should try it before we stop selling it,” she tells him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, he says, “I’m fine with black coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suit yourself, Cloud,” she smiles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She asks about his occupation, learning that he is a courier and spends most of his time across the continent during the days. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t get back until 9 or 10 at night,” he says. “Mostly during the holidays. Part of the reason why I hate winter.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa gasps. “You hate winter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s cold, wet, and the most selfish time of the year,” he answers, slurping his coffee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s jaw drops. “But...” she shakes her head vigorously. “Okay, I’ll hand it to you, the weather is cold and wet, but the snow is so beautiful, and the frost is my favorite. You have to wake up early in the morning before the day starts to really appreciate it.” She frowns. “And selfish? What makes you say that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud shrugs. “People start feeling more entitled over the things they want. The season makes people </span>
  <em>
    <span>give, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but they usually have some kind of motive, whether it’s to make people like them, ease their conscience, or to make them feel like they’re better people than they are.” He glances out the window, avoiding her gaze. “Dunno. Always felt so commercial. It’s expected for people to be good. Even kids, or they’ll receive</span>
  <em>
    <span> coal </span>
  </em>
  <span>in their stockings.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s frown progressively deepens. “That’s a very cynical outlook, Cloud.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, he smirks, but he still avoids her gaze. “My friend calls me a scrooge. I guess he’s right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have a friend?” she asks teasingly. “You can’t be a scrooge if you have a friend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs, and it nearly sounds like a laugh. “Right. He told me about this place, actually, so I guess he’s a good one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s eyes perk up. “Oh? That’s even better. He brought you to me so I could tell you all about the wonders of wintertime.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Cloud raises his eyes to meet hers. “If you’re going to sing praises about snowflakes, I’ll have to pass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa laughs before shaking her head. “No, I won’t do that. I won’t annoy you with all my favorite things about this time of year. It’ll probably make you hate it more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On December fifteenth, the cynical, defeatist Cloud—which is how Tifa labels him in her mind—finally cracks a smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is small. Terribly small. Almost so small, Tifa calls it a skeleton of the real thing. It has no muscle behind it. It has nothing to truly move it around or make it grow, but it is a smile nonetheless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is a gift on its own. Ten days before Christmas, Tifa counts it as a victory. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What’s even more is that he comes back, the next day and the next. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>“Do you like peppermint?” she asks him on Thursday, December seventeenth. Cloud has arrived at exactly 7:03, and it gives him approximately twenty-seven minutes before he should be on his motorcycle, speeding his way out of town. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” he answers. “It isn’t my favorite.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm,” Tifa hums, tapping her lips. “What about creme brûlée?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud blinks. “What is that? Like a custard?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa grins. “Kinda. Here, let me make you a latte.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She has told him the morning rush doesn’t hit until Cloud leaves. Between 7:30 and 8:00 am, so many businessmen and women are speeding to and fro, or they’ll get calls for orders to be placed and delivered. That’s when Tifa’s mom comes out of hiding from the back room, helping to keep everything running smoothly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a small mercy from the world. He likes getting to chat with her. The earlier he arrives, the longer he can stay. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She whips it up for him, going so far as to sprinkle sugar on the whipped cream and blow torch the top, crystallizing the sugar. “This should help you take out some of those monsters on your route,” she tells him, walking out from behind the counter to deliver it to his table by the window. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah…” he mumbles, not expecting such an extravagant coffee. “It’s…too pretty to drink.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rolling her eyes, Tifa shakes her head. “It is not. Go on. Try it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tentatively, he brings the cup to his lips. His mouth is bordered completely with the thick cream on top, and its chill counteracts the scalding heat of the coffee and milk underneath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The drink shoots into his limbs. It soaks his blood with caffeine and sweetness and a touch of the dark roast of the coffee. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is so delicious, Cloud realizes he might actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>lattes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So?” she asks a few moments later, placing her hands on her hips. “What do you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud stares at the cup. He struggles to answer. He doesn’t know how to express it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s…good,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks over him for a moment before her lips curl up into a deeper grin. The expression makes Cloud feel as though he’s been caught red-handed with something—which is ridiculous. He flushes under her scrutiny, averting his gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m happy you like it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s sure he could probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>live </span>
  </em>
  <span>off of it had that been a plausible option. His heart races, and it’s probably from all of the indulgences mixed together. His body isn’t used to so much sugar hitting his system. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet…it feels different, somehow. His cheeks flush darker. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he glances back up at Tifa, she’s still smiling at him. He feels another jolt run from his neck to his arms. His chest pinches. She’s so pretty. She’s almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>pretty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what?” he asks, not sure what’s coming over him. “Teach me about the wonders of wintertime. I might not hate it as much as I think I will.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s eyes widen in delight. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud shrugs a shoulder. “Sure. It won’t kill me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when Tifa beams at him, clapping her hands in front of her and pulling out the seat in front of him, already expelling her opinions over the glorious magic of December, he thinks it might run over him like a reindeer and kill him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It might kill him because he starts to smile for the first time in over a year. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Tifa has a new coffee ready for him every morning. She takes a seat across from him once he’s settled with his treat of the morning, and she begins her vivid explanations over the wonders of winter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She tells him about the beauty of the mountains, the rich spell of the frosty air, the merriment, the sugar, and the warmth of family. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He listens to her, and she thinks it’s very courteous of him. She knows it might sound over the top, and even to her own ears, it sounds like she believes in the magic of the holidays a little too much to be considered healthy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When she pauses for a sip of her coffee, Cloud stares at his own cup, and he frowns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I never really liked all the joy. People sharing time with one another. It always seemed too…happy,” he admits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, Tifa giggles. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Too</span>
  </em>
  <span> happy? I didn’t know that could be a thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud shifts in his seat. “Maybe that’s just me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She relaxes back into her chair, tilting her head at him. “What about your family? Friends? Hobbies that you love? Things that give you joy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs a hand along the back of his neck. “There’s not a lot. I consider Zack my friend, but he’s also a coworker. I have no living family. I go to work, and then I go home.” His eyebrows furrow as he continues staring at his coffee. “I guess joy has been hard to find, so I…stopped.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Cloud.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At her words, he blinks. He shakes his head quickly. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to uh, bring down the mood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He goes to stand, and Tifa panics, standing up with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, no. It’s okay. I’m just…I’m sorry you’ve stopped looking,” she says. “This is going to sound…well, I’ve always thought there is joy everywhere, from the moment you wake up, to the roads you travel, and even in the people you pass when you walk to this shop.” She bites her lip, wanting to coax him into staying even though the time is already 7:27 am. It’s past time for him to leave, and he might even be late. “Sometimes, it’s even in how the sun hits you, or…or the way your bed feels after a long day. It doesn’t have to be extravagant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud stares at her, his chest heaving in a sigh. She spies a blush line his cheeks before he grabs his coffee cup. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh…yeah. Maybe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds too skeptical. Tifa crosses her arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it sounds silly and far fetched, but…” she pauses, thinking quickly. “How about this? Find something that reminds you of joy today. It can be anything. Nothing is too small or insignificant. Then,” she says, lifting a finger. “Report back to me about it tomorrow.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud blinks, seeming to weigh his options. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“…alright,” he finally agrees. “I’ll report back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She beams at him. “Perfect. I’ll be waiting.”</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Cloud has his answer for her as soon as he leaves the bakery. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t tell her what it is. There’s no way he’ll tell her what it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But throughout the rest of the day, nothing compares to the smile she gave him before he left.  </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>When he arrives the next morning, Tifa sets him up with a pumpkin spice latte, a streusel, and a question. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well? What did you see?” she asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud takes a sip of the drink. It tastes just like pie.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Usually, when Cloud tries to look for something, it does not show itself. The previous day, Cloud kept his eyes open for something that was as brilliant as Tifa’s smile. He eyed the frost on the grass bordering the roads. He admired the sunlight reflecting off the mountains. He even tried to feel something different than the mild irritation he experiences from the wind cutting into his breaker. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On his way back, he finally saw it. Before the sun had set, he saw a blue jay passing across the flaming orange of the sky. It floated, its feathers ruffling and its chest proud. It was alone until it landed on one of the trees, standing together on the branch with another blue jay. It fluffed the feathers on the other bird, chirping loudly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud spins his cup, the image of the birds imprinted across his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I saw a blue jay,” he answers her. “It was flying across the horizon. I haven’t seen one of them in a long time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa begins to smile. “No, there aren’t many birds around Edge.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It landed on its nest in a tree with another blue jay,” he continues. “It was nice to see it. Even that bird had a family.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa’s smile falters, and Cloud realizes what he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, sorry,” he says. “Lack of family doesn’t bother me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay if it does,” she answers him. “It’s hard to lose family. To be…alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, Cloud takes a sip of his coffee. It eases the subtle ache in his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can choose not to be alone. I don’t have to be by myself, but…it’s always been simpler that way,” Cloud says. “Never had the energy for anything else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It shouldn’t feel like that when you find what you want,” she says, shaking her head. “Sometimes, the best things just…happen, especially when you’re not looking for them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud smiles a bit into his coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s starting to believe in that.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>On December nineteenth, it’s a Saturday. Tifa works weekends at the bakery, too. They open a little later, and she and her mother enter the kitchen together. It’s a catch-up day, her mother calls it. When orders come in for the next week, they spend their time prepping for the onslaught and the busyness of the next few days. The coming week will be Christmas, and Tifa is so ready for it, she might burst from excitement. It gives her enough energy to work the long hours that are required of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud has not told her if he works weekends. If he does, they open too late for him to come in, and she hasn’t told him that she works two jobs. Though Tifa does not consider the bakery a </span>
  <em>
    <span>job, </span>
  </em>
  <span>necessarily, she hasn’t mentioned Seventh Heaven, or that it’s under her ownership. It saddens her that she doesn’t see him. It makes the day feel…strange. Off-kilter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s already told her mother about him, calling him the strange man from the sidewalk. As they bake together, Tifa relates to her the past week and their conversations in the mornings. Tifa thinks she might have learned more about this man than she has learned about anyone else in the last six months. Even her customers at the bar tell her things like Cloud does, but they are usually slurring their words and don’t remember half the things they say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With Cloud, it seems his poison is coffee and his delights are cookies and cakes, brownies, streusels, and everything in between. There’s something about bonding over a cup of coffee, sitting at a small table, and looking out into the world from a glass window. Tifa enjoys their conversations immensely, but she has noticed the sadness in his eyes. They are so intense that they hide their true feelings, but she can see it when he looks away. When he eyes the people passing on the sidewalk, or when he looks deep into his cup of coffee filled with cream, foam, and sometimes sprinkles if she’s feeling adventurous that morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Usually, Cloud scoffs at the added ingredients, but he suffers through it without much complaint. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next time she sees him is Tuesday, December twenty-second. They are closed on Mondays, which happens to be the only day of the week they take off. He does not arrive on Sunday, either, which is unsurprising. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels like ages since she sees him last, but that’s untrue. It hasn’t been very long at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they take their seats at the window table, she’s delighted when he tells her that he has seen several other things that he equates to joy. He says that the things she told him about—the sunlight reflecting off the mountains, how the wind rustles through the bare branches on the trees that he drives by, and the people he passes on the sidewalks—have helped him. He’s begun noticing them more and more often. Never before had he really looked at his surroundings. He never had the urge to care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s been in a fog, he says. He hadn’t realized until earlier this month, when his friend had teased him about being angry at the wind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The awareness suddenly struck him, and it has seemed to change everything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa smiles at him when he tells her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes, that’s all we need,” she says. “Someone to tell us what was blocking our way or what we’ve been missing out on. I’m glad your friend mentioned that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this, Cloud smiles at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It is still a skeleton smile, but there are a few ribbons of muscles on it, now. The corners of his lips tip up higher. There is a definite strength behind it where there wasn’t before. As he finishes up his coffee, Tifa gains a whiff of courage, as poignant as the smell of a freshly baked cake pulled out of the oven.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I work at Seventh Heaven when I’m not here,” she says. “Have you heard of it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud looks at her, tilting his head. “I’ve heard of it. I’ve never been.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s my real job. This is just a gig I do on the side,” she says, gesturing to the shop. “I manage Heaven in the evenings. We stay open till midnight or later, depending on the day. If you ever get in late, or you need another type of drink…” she says, smiling knowingly. “You should try it over there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud looks at her, contemplating her words. After a moment, he says, “You’ll be there, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa smirks at him. “Of course I’ll be there,” she says. “I have to manage it somehow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Running a hand along the back of his neck, he glances away. It’s a nervous tic. She’s noticed him do this a few times before, but she’s not sure what he has to be nervous about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” he answers eventually. “Maybe after Christmas. That’s when things finally start slowing down.” Sheepishly, he says, “I don’t trust myself with drinking during the weeknights. I don’t think I’ll be able to wake up on time the next day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa giggles. “That’s very responsible of you,” she grins. He shrugs in response, but she can see the blush lingering on his cheeks when he looks away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate to drive with a hangover,” he says. “It makes me even meaner than I normally am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tifa shakes her head at him. “You haven’t seemed that mean in a while. It must be the sugar I’m feeding you,” she teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud gives her a funny stare at her words. His eyebrows quirk up. “Honestly,” he says. “I think the sugar has helped.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think so?” Tifa smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says it so resolutely, and with such intensity, Tifa sits up straighter in her chair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad to hear it,” she breathes, taking a swig from her coffee to keep from staring at him. He’s so…so…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you open on Christmas?” he asks. “Seventh Heaven?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nods. “We’re open, but we close early. Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shrugging, he says, “I’ll stop by after deliveries. I might get in a bit late. What time are you closing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eleven,” she answers. She curls her fingers around the cup. “I’ll be there until midnight, at least. I’ll open the door for you if you get in later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…you would do that?” he asks. He averts his eyes again, and she can tell he’s flustered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure,” she smiles. “My mother and I celebrate in the morning on Christmas. I don’t mind. I’ll be cleaning up the bar, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shifting in his seat, Cloud’s face softens. “I can help you clean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She laughs. “No, you don’t have to do that. After a long day? You should enjoy a drink and take it easy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“As long as you enjoy one with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning, Tifa turns her gaze away from him toward the window. He’s so…</span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’s right. It must be all the sugar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay. I’ll do that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he leaves for work, Tifa has yet another reason to look forward to Christmas. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>On Christmas, it snows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud doesn’t grumble about it nearly as much as he would have three weeks prior, but he is frustrated by the time it takes for him to get back to Edge. All he can think about is a nightcap and seeing Tifa in a different setting. What does she look like outside of the bakery? Does she still wear an apron? Is her hair in a bun?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he arrives, it’s nearing eleven-thirty. Snowflakes stick to his eyelashes and dust his shoulders. His breath puffs in front of him in a hazy fog, and his cheeks feel as though they’ve burned from the iciness of the evening, but he can’t mind it when Tifa opens up the front doors to Seventh Heaven. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She doesn’t wear an apron. She wears what must be considered a barmaid outfit—a cropped, white tank top, a skirt with long shorts underneath it, leggings, and red, well-worn sneakers. Her hair is down and tied at the end, the shorter layers hanging around her face. Her cheeks are glowing from the light of the bar behind her, and she grins when she sees him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud knows one thing. Seventh Heaven is a very apt name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cloud! You made it!” she says, opening the door wider. “Come in!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud smiles back, trekking inside. Snow falls off of him as he scuffs his boots against the welcome mat. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack to the right of the entrance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merry Christmas,” she tells him, placing her hands on her hips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Merry Christmas,” he says back, running a gloved hand through his spikes before taking them off and placing them in his jacket pocket. The warmth of the bar is an extraordinary indulgence. A fire crackles in the hearth to the left of the bar and in the open seating of the room. There is a Christmas pine in the corner, strewn with white lights and black and gold ornaments. It suffuses the room with the sharp scent of cedar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She ushers him to the bar counter, gesturing for him to take a seat at a stool while she traipses behind the counter to grab two glasses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How was your day?” she asks. “Full of monsters and selfish people?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s teasing him. He smiles. “It wasn’t so bad. The snow wasn’t heavy, and people were happy to receive their gifts by Christmastime.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A real world Santa Claus,” Tifa grins, reaching up to an overhead cabinet. Her tank rises a little higher on her abdomen, and Cloud averts his gaze to the wood of the counter. “I’ve been wanting to open this cognac ever since I received it from Corel. Is that okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, whatever you like,” Cloud says, tipping his head and shrugging. “And I’m not a Santa Claus.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Giggling, she brings down the bottle she’s looking for, uncapping it and pouring a finger in each of the glasses. “Well, this is to celebrate a successful Christmas and for getting home safely.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels himself blush, and he shifts in his seat. “Ah…thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pushes one of the filled glasses towards him, leaning on the bar counter. She palms the other glass and lifts it up. “Cheers, Cloud.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grabs his glass and clinks it against hers. “Cheers, Tifa.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud takes a sip, and the rich alcohol burns all the way to his toes. He thought Tifa’s coffee was bad. This is a thousand times worse. His chest warms from the inside out until his skin tingles, and he feels like he might float away. If he hadn’t seen Tifa pour the simple drink himself, he would be hard pressed to think it was a magic potion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What…kind is this?” Cloud asks, gesturing toward the drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a Chambord,” Tifa answers. “It’s from a western Corel distillery. We have a contract with them, and they send us samples. It’s good, isn’t it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Cloud says. Underneath the lighting of the bar, Cloud can see dark amber highlights in her hair. They’re the color of the cognac. He sighs. “It’s really good. Strong.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The best kind,” she says, coming around the counter. She takes a seat in the stool beside him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How was your day?” he asks. He keeps becoming distracted by the rose in her cheeks. He takes another drink of the cognac, but it only makes it more prominent. “You uh, didn’t have to work too hard, did you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shakes her head. “It was a slow day, but it was nice. There are always the few customers who need a comforting meal or the spirit of Christmas, and I’m happy I can provide food or a drink or even conversation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud stares at her. “You serve food here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. It’s a limited menu, and we only serve from five until nine, but it’s decently popular.” She smiles at his surprised expression. “I tend to cook in the back during those hours while I have servers man the front.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finishes his drink, completely astounded by everything she’s done. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s amazing,” he says. “You cook. You bake. You run a business. How do you do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She turns away from him, and he notices the blush that creeps up her neck. He has the horrifying urge to reach out and turn her head back to face him, and he quells it immediately, grimacing at his now empty glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you make it sound more impressive than it actually is,” she says, twirling her glass in her hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I’m not. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> impressive,” he says, leaning closer. “It’s incredible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She blushes even further, looking up at his words with widened eyes. Cloud can’t even be shocked at himself for saying it because he believes in it so fully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still imagines her smile, at times, when he needs a boost of joy. Sometimes it comes unbidden, flashing across his eyes like a spotlight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, thank you,” she says quietly. “But I just like to cook.” She reaches for the bottle of cognac, going to refill his glass. “More?” Without waiting for him to answer her, she fills it anyway. She refills hers, too, before taking another sip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is she nervous? Cloud can’t fathom it, but he smiles at her when they catch eyes. He asks. “So, which is your favorite? Cooking or baking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love both,” she says. “They’re so different. You get to experiment and create new recipes…” Shrugging, she shakes her head. “I guess it just depends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’d you make today?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She smiles. “Chicken pot pie. It’s one of the favorites.” She straightens, and her face slackens. “Are you hungry? I didn’t even ask!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m alright, Tifa,” he says. “You don’t have to cook for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have leftovers. I made too much. It would actually be a favor if you ate the rest,” she says, smiling. She tilts her head to the side. “The kitchen is in the back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he can say anything further, his stomach growls. Tifa grins, leaning forward and poking his stomach. “Liar,” she laughs. “C’mon. Let’s go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hops off her stool, and Cloud follows her lead, sighing half-heartedly, and says, “Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t feel the effects of the alcohol—not as though he’s tipsy or drunk. Instead, he feels warm and too comfortable. He feels as though he is trapped in a cup of hot chocolate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She reaches out and grabs his forearm in a light grip, tugging him gently behind her. He doesn’t mind it in the least. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they venture into the back kitchen, Tifa pulls out the bowl of leftover filling, the chilled dough, and preheats the oven. Her eyes light up as she tells him she’d love to teach him how to put it all together. Cloud protests at first, but he soon realizes that </span>
  <em>
    <span>teaching </span>
  </em>
  <span>really means </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he gets to hover behind her as she shows him the art of rolling out dough, and what truly constitutes as the perfect ratio of dough to filling? Tifa tells him what she thinks, and Cloud objects and tells her the more dough, the better. Tifa laughs before slipping behind him and pushing him toward the counter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, then, dough guy. You get to roll out this piece.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I like watching you,” he says. “I learn better that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She makes a tutting noise. “No excuses, Cloud. I don’t believe you.” She points to the rolling pin and the pad of dough. “Go ahead. Wow me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow you by rolling dough?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, her lips quirk up. She places her hands on her hips and tilts her head, saying with a light voice, “It’s pretty attractive if a guy can roll out his own dough. Ask any girl.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud smirks at that. “So…” he trails, taking the rolling pin and pressing it into the pad of dough. He begins to press it into a circular sheet. “You’re saying that by doing something as simple as </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is attractive to you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s teasing her this time, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need just the right amount of pressure and precision to get the thickness right,” she says, and her cheeks begin blushing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. The right pressure and thickness?” Cloud asks, pressing outward in a few diagonal strokes. “Like this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not bad…but it’s not perfect, either,” she answers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud raises a brow and glances at her, trying not to betray his amusement. “Not perfect? What’s wrong with it?” He leans toward her. “Is it the </span>
  <em>
    <span>thickness?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At that, she cracks. She begins laughing. “Cloud!” Continuing to laugh, she takes a step forward and reaches for the rolling pin. He gives it up, but he crowds her space and doesn’t move away. “For pot pie, the top has to be a little thinner to give it the correct bake and to cook evenly.” She turns her head to glance up at him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like thickness in other things, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud smiles at that, and he can’t help it when he places one hand on the counter and the other on her hip. She stiffens under his touch before she relaxes, and Cloud is urged on by it and the magic of cognac. And the scent of her hair. And the blush of her cheeks. And how she’s still looking up at him, her gaze connected with his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stares at her as his smile fades. Her eyes dart to his lips then back to his eyes, and his blood sings through his ears. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good to know,” he says, and when she smiles in answer, he leans forward and kisses her. It is chaste and short-lived, and Cloud breaks away, suddenly uncertain at the surprised part of her lips and the wide-eyed look she gives him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He quickly takes his hand away from her hip, going to step back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, I’m sorry, I just—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” she says hurriedly, dropping the pin and turning completely. She reaches up and pulls his face down to kiss him again, and this time it isn’t as chaste, but it is soft and sweet. It is warm. She parts her lips, and he can taste the heat of her mouth. It feels like he’s submerged in that cognac bottle, and she’s whipping him up like heavy cream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands land on her hips again. Her front presses into his chest. His thumbs rove over her stomach. Her fingers flutter into his hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The oven alerts them that it’s finished preheating, but they pay it no heed. It’s only after minutes of breathless kissing before they stop, resting their foreheads together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad I ran into you that day,” he confesses, feeling like she is his only tether to the world. He wants to float away again. He’s lighter than he’s ever been. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She huffs a laugh. “Me too, even though you scared me a little.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m a scary guy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not anymore, I don’t think,” he says, smiling. His hands dip down slightly to crest over her bottom, and she sighs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just needed a little bit of sugar in your life,” she laughs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud wholeheartedly agrees. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, they break away to finish the pot pies, placing them into the oven. They make their way into the front sitting room and take a seat on the couch before the fire while they wait for them to bake. They sit close together, and Tifa says, “Thanks for coming to the bakery so often.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s been the best decision I’ve made in a while,” he says. “There’s something magical about the coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, there’s not,” Tifa giggles. “It’s just made with care and love and all the nice things in life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Love, magic…they’re the same thing, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She kisses him. “I was always so happy to see you. Maybe that was it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he mumbles against her lips, pulling her closer to him. They kiss in front of the fire until the pies are finished, and they eat in front of the fire, too. At nearly three-quarters past midnight, Cloud is decadently full on a cold, winter evening. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kisses Tifa for dessert, and he tells her as much. She laughs against him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you think I’m sweet?” she says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better than your desserts,” he answers easily. “I’ve got a big sweet tooth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, I know,” she hums. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They fold into the couch, covered in the heat of the fire crackling in the hearth and the warmth of the joy he’s found in her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cloud realizes winter isn’t so bad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In fact, he thinks, it doesn’t get much better than this.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>